


The Moon's Lament

by WatteauYouDoing



Series: The Summer Triangle [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Guitar, Other, Reader Insert, Second Person, Swearing, based on V route, hitman!MC, light spoilers for V route, reader with a backstory, reader with a personality, set during the conversation 'Night of Reminiscence' on Day 2, slight AU of V's route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatteauYouDoing/pseuds/WatteauYouDoing
Summary: It's late at night, and you find yourself getting melancholy with V and Jumin. Their relationship is touching, in a way, and god, do you hate being touched. It reminds you of everything you've lost, and how, in this situation, there's nothing you really stand to gain.Still. Might as well have what fun you can, right? Make the best of the cards you were dealt. It helps that your forte is denial.(Contains slight spoilers for V's route up to the morning of Day 2.)





	The Moon's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short involving a pretty developed custom MC that I've written about on my tumblr. You can read about them here if you're curious! They're... kind of a snarky, sassy, bad-tempered and thoroughly depressed hitman-for-hire. Basically: a garbage person.
> 
> http://anyway-i-love-vanderwood.tumblr.com/tagged/vega/page/3

_Information superiority._

You leaned back on the bed, languid – one hand propped behind your head, the other on your phone, its light bathing your face in a diffuse, electric glow. Your guitar was slotted between your arms, the polished wood of its base cool in the sticky night air; you supposed that wherever this “Unknown” fellow had taken you, they didn’t have enough of a budget for a proper air conditioning unit. 

It didn’t surprise you. People like him were more concerned with flourishes than functionality, and despite only having met Rika once, you figured that she was somewhat the same. This room… yes, on the surface, it was certainly ‘to your tastes’ in that it resembled things you were comfortable with: hotels, minimalist rooms where nothing felt personal and the art was either tacky, floral, or both. The carpets were beige, the sort of modest, noncommittal color that tried to be as inoffensive as possible and, in the end, just came across as having no discernable style other than ‘well, it’s there and I don’t _hate_ it, I guess’. The walls were white – a tasteful sort of cream color that businessmen might describe as _eggshell_ or _champagne_ or some other bullshit used to categorize business cards, but the style had no form, and the lack of windows meant you couldn’t let in a pleasant summer breeze or hear the last cicadas cry.

Chosen specifically for you? Every decoration picked out with you in mind? _Hah._ You could tell, just from this room, that ‘Ray’ – despite possessing the _information superiority_ on you right now – was too sheltered or too _stupid_ to really understand who you were.

Elegant? Classy? Fuck no. If Ray knew a goddamn thing about you, he’d know you liked things tacky and orange and just as ugly as they were comfortable. Unlovable things that no one else but you could love. Knick-knacks, shit from a daiso, and those terrible, ugly gnomes that you found at thrift shops – that was your aesthetic. That was entertaining.

These walls? They were boring, and just made you want to ask what kind of business cards this strange, strange man named Jumin Han had. You resolved to file that question away for later, and shifted so you could get at the half-filled glass of wine you had sitting on the rounded, disgustingly modern end-table.

Perhaps you didn’t like your surroundings, but you _did_ have someone to entertain you, someone who already acknowledged your superiority and who you could wholeheartedly toy with in turn.

>> Vega: So, who do you think I am, then? Do you have any guesses?

>> Jumin Han: Hmn, if I’m correct…

>> Jumin Han: You’re a practitioner of dark magic, who veils themselves in secrets through a mist of incense and black coal.

>> Jumin Han: No, wait. Ignore that. Let’s drop this conversation here.

You barked out a laugh, the wine sloshing dangerously before you reoriented it with a practiced hand. Over half the bottle had been drunken by you already, and the other half would be consumed by dawn. At least Ray acknowledged this part of you, the alcoholic who could drink like a demon.

The wine was a bit too good, though. It made you feel a little bad. You set the glass down, and keyed in a quick reply to Jumin.

>> Vega: No, no! Please, continue! I want to hear this. Tell me about your theory, oh wise master of commerce.

>> Vega: Maybe there’s something to it. Make a hypothesis. There’s no harm in it, unless your thinking isn’t fluid enough to incorporate new information. So let’s have a little fun!

>> Vega: If I was a dark wizard, who would I be? Imagine a personality for me. Through these manufactured secrets, maybe you’ll get somewhere close to the truth, huh?

>> Vega: And then you can take the upper hand from me.

>> Jumin Han: Hmn.

>> Jumin Han: **I’m not interested.**

>> Jumin Han: I believe in working smarter, not harder. That’s why I have Assistant Kang to sort through all of my menial tasks.

>> Jumin Han: That sort of deduction doesn’t seem like it’d give any tangible results.

>> Jumin Han: It might even tell you more about me. Analyzing the way another person thinks is a valuable tool in negotiations.

>> Jumin Han: The more you talk, the more you stand to lose.

>> Vega: But if you don’t talk, you can’t assert yourself.

>> Vega: Isn’t it better to be the loudest person in the room? Then everyone will respect your presence.

>> Jumin Han: **Absolutely not.**

>> Jumin Han: The loudest man in the room is the one most likely to be the target of a curse.

>> Jumin Han: Wallawallawashington! Badonkadinkadong!

>> Jumin Han: Like that.

Another chuckle, osharp and surprised and making you curl up half-around your guitar (the only thing that Ray man had gotten right, really, getting you one of these. It was a nice one, too. It almost soothed the loss of having to ditch your real one on the plane.)

This was great. Jumin was _so_ entertaining.

>> Vega: You’re a riot, prez.

>> Jumin Han: Is that a good thing? And what do you mean by _prez?_

>> Vega: President, prez. Aren’t you some kind of big shot?

>> Vega: Regardless. I mean you’re a hoot. A lark.

>> Jumin Han: A bird?

>> Vega: Hah! Maybe a loon, but no. You’re funny, is what I mean.

>> Jumin Han: Oh.

>> Jumin Han: You understand my sense of humor? Perhaps I should reevaluate my opinion of you.

>> Vega: Hey, look at that. You’re already getting some new information. That wasn’t a waste after all, huh?

You closed your eyes, setting your phone down for a moment and sliding your dark-gloved hand over to the stem of the glass. Opening them again, half-lidded, you stared at the world around you through a hazy, yellowed blur. That was another thing he’d gotten right, if only by accident – you hated fluorescent light. It had to be warm, and soft, like a globe you could almost touch if you squinted just right.

Drinking wine in blaring, artificial light just didn’t do it for you.

Maybe you could to that with vodka, or Everclear straight from the bottle. That brought back memories.

Mostly bad ones, but memories nonetheless.

You scooted, changing position so your back was against the wooden headboard and the gifted guitar was coddled in your lap. You were still getting used to it, so you strummed idly, picking out a few chords and notes and stringing them together in something that sounded vaguely familiar. Ah – you’d played something like this once, hadn’t you? With a man who smelled like cigars and whiskey.

…You wanted a cigarette, but you didn’t have any on you. Maybe that’d be the next thing you’d ask Ray for, when he called on you in the morning. You were already indulging the weird little pageant he was conducting; might as well make that little dipshit work for your satisfaction.

 _God._ Who the hell wore cravats in this day and age? That was a cravat, right? What did he think he was… some kind of prince?

With the way he talked, he certainly sounded like it. Pft. Who the hell needed princes in the modern era, anyway? The world had been transformed into an endless land of guns; unless you were in Canada, mounted cavalry had basically become extinct.

Sighing, you finished off your glass in one deep, desperate gulp, filled it up again with a lazy drizzle of red, and then picked up your phone to see who was winning the get wasted-race. To your surprise, though, it wasn’t just you and Jumin, anymore.

It was you, Jumin, and V.

You weren’t sure what to think of V, quite honestly, particularly when his profile picture was set to that dewey, doey image of him cuddling up to his wackadoodle ex or _whatever_ she was to him. Part of you just wanted to ask him forthright: _hey, you know the fiancé you’ve been lying about being dead has, like… been my employer in the past, right?_ But that’d mean explaining what exactly your realm of business was, and, hell, even if you didn’t have Ray telling you to keep your mouth shut about yourself, you didn’t want to open that can of worms. Your closets were five-foot graves filled with rotting corpses; you had more skeletons to your name than a Halloween supply store. None of these idiots needed to know about your history.

None of these idiots needed to know about you.

But, you kind of wanted to know about them – or, more specifically, you wanted to know about this Jihyun Kim guy, because _God_ was he gooey, warm, and cute. His voice was dripping with it: a timid sort of affection, a shy generosity, a firm – yet somehow melancholy – love that bordered on lyrical. You could tell from his face that he was an artist, from the sweep of his blue hair to the warmth in his eyes. You could tell he was an artist from that sadness he carried with him, so how the _fuck_ had he _ever_ been engaged to that blonde lunatic?

Why was he lying and saying she’d killed herself?

What the _hell_ was the story there, huh?

_It had you so curious!_

You flipped through the conversation V and Jumin had been having, squinting at the lines of faint, color-coded text. They’d dived into their own memories, it seems, recollections about drinking wine together and their individual tastes. It pleased you that both men liked to drink. Though you didn’t say so to them, you liked the idea of drinking together, separated through the phone screen but still looking at the same, unnaturally bright moon.

Well, not that you could see the sky from this hellish room. And – ahhh, weren’t you supposed to call these men ‘fakes?’

Right, right.

You snorted. It was just a convenient metaphor. To you? They weren’t supposed to be real people. They were just pieces in a game you were meant to be playing with as you discovered their “story”.

>> Vega: You two are certainly close. Ahh, I’m a bit jealous. The ‘childhood friend’ archetype has always made me feel a bit lonesome.

>> V: Oh, Vega! You are here!

>> V: Hello! …But what do you mean, archetype?

>> Jumin Han: Are you saying that we embody the essence of childhood friends?

>> Vega: I guess you could put it like that?

>> Vega: It’s endearing. Go on, you can keep talking. I was enjoying the conversation.

>> Vega: There’s something oddly beautiful about seeing two people who have known each other their entire lives talk. Haha! Perhaps we should have ‘friendship viewings’ instead of ‘cherry blossom’ viewings!

>> Jumin Han: I’d hope that our friendship lasts longer than the cherry blossoms.

>> Jumin Han: …But it is true. We’ve been together for so long, it feels like our lives are irrevocably intertwined.

>> Jumin Han: And no matter how many years pass, we still remain the same.

>> V: Jumin… Just how drunk are you? ^^;

>> V: Are you alright?

>> V: Jumin…?

There was silence in the chatroom, and you strummed idly, your fingers picking over your guitar before keying in an idle reply with your thumb.

>> Vega: Maybe he’s fallen asleep?

>> V: I certainly hope not…

There was a beat, and then –

>> Jumin Han: V.

>> Jumin Han: Do you remember when we first met?

>> V: You mean… when I was taking pictures of our doodling on the wall?

>> Jumin Han: **No.** Your memory is really horrible.

>> V: Oh… Oh! No, I remember!

>> V: You crashed into the wall outside my house with your toy car!

>> Vega: You _what?_

>> Vega: _You seriously did that?_

Another laugh, this one louder and longer, going into full-blown hysteria when Jumin continued to describe the circumstances of their illustrious meeting. He called the insurance company? This little boy called the _insurance company?_ And V – V asked to be friends with this odd, suit-clad man who _bled_ money and a fundamental misunderstanding with how the world works?

What a pair of oddballs.

What a pair of ridiculous people.

What a pair – and they must have so many stories, too, of their adventures together, of their warmth and support. Jumin trusted V so implicitly, after all. Despite how suspicious of a man he was, Jumin put all of his faith in his friend. He saw the core of V, saw the _real him_ – the person obscured by the strange, unknowable story that had shrouded his life and ruined his relationships with those around him. Despite everything, Jumin stayed by V’s side. Despite everything, Jumin loved him. Wasn’t that true friendship? Under this moonlight that you couldn’t see…

Wasn’t that true love?

 _Haha,_ you laughed, because you were reminded of a glass in the lantern-light and how, back then, you only drank half as much, because someone else was there to finish the rest of the bottle for you.

You kept laughing, deep, breathy little wheezes, even as you felt your eyes grow wet and your fingers clutch at the strings.

What the hell, huh?

What the hell.

These idiots.

Why were they making you feel this way?

Haha! Was this the same emotion that made people cry at the cherry blossoms, too? A reminder of what was lost, a reminder of the transience of life and everything that could – and _would –_ disappear?

…You grabbed the bottle, tipped it back, and drank, because that was what you did at times like this. Alone, in a strange room, staying put to save your own ass… because that was what you had promised, and for some reason, you kept trudging forward, despite your jealousy and ill-will towards the world.

And yet.

You didn’t hate them. Somehow, you just wanted to watch these two men more, like you were a lonely, theatergoing god… so much so that it pained you when V started chiding Jumin to go to sleep, and he departed from the messenger, leaving you alone with that odd enigma known as V.

Earlier, you would have been pleased at the chance to grill him, but now?

>> Vega: Well, it’s late.

>> Vega: I shoid go to bed to

>> V: …Vega?

>> Vega: Sorry, typo

>> Vega: Finger slipped

>> Vega: Don’t stay up too late. Bye.

You typed these carefully, slowly, like words dripping from hiney, and then signed out of the chatroom in a fervent rush, leaving V alone and forsaken. God.

God!

What an embarrassment! You could feel it hit you, that haze, could feel it cloud everything. You let the phone drop next to you on the bed, landing there with a _paff,_ and you returned to playing, trying to ignore the teardrops slipping across your skin and striking the polished wood of your guitar.

How pathetic.

It felt like you were some moody teenager just learning how to play _Wonderwall._

What the hell… was happening to you? You, who should be so cruel and coldhearted? It had been so much easier to be a monster when that man was alive. Because, in the end, you got all the love you needed from him. Everything in the world… had come down to him.

Even this song, it had all been for him, because he played the piano and made it complete.

It was a shock when the sound of a piano joined in, those delicate notes filling the room, and you completely froze, your heart and your mind turning to glass. It took you a moment to remember that you’d set your ring-tone to that song, and you carefully flipped the phone over, like you were rescuing a turtle, and saw that the caller was V.

A beat passed. Two. After a full measure, you tapped the answer button, and put the phone on speaker.

“Ah… Vega! You picked up!”

“I did,” you said, trying to conceal the warble in your voice. After so many years, you were pretty good at it, and you forced your lips to curve into a smile. “Are you surprised? Did you think I’d ignore you?”

“Well, you left so quickly… I was worried. I thought something might have happened.”

He certainly sounded it, his voice edged with concern. It should have made you feel better, but really, it was a lonely sound, reminding you of how much distance there was between you and other people. He was wasting his time being concerned with you.

You laughed it off, the perfect production. Hah! What would Zen think of your acting right now?

“I was just feeling nauseous. I’ve been drinking too much, I think. I’d been hoping it’d help me get to sleep.”

“Ah…” V said, a low sort of sound. “I’d wondered…”

 “Oho? You haven’t known me that long; can you already pick out my _drunken manner?”_

“Perhaps a bit – wait, what’s that?”

“Hmn?” You grunted, then realized that your fingers were still idly travelling over the strings, keeping your hands busy as you addressed the room. “Oh – I was just playing a bit. The guitar. You can hear it?”

“Yes, quite clearly, actually. Your phone speakers must be very good. I didn’t realize you played…”

“Yes, I do.” Something struck you then, a whim, and it made it easier to bury everything else in its box as you played pretend. Perhaps it was a bad idea to let V see a little more of _you,_ but on the other hand… you weren’t sure where you were going with this game. You wanted to maintain the information superiority, sure, but you also wanted to play, because you were the sort of person who needed to be entertained. You got idle sitting alone. You got bored. If you gave nothing, you’d just be left with empty space to thing.

You’d started thinking about things, and that was the worst position imaginable for someone in your line of work.

“Hey. You were having trouble sleeping, right? How about I play you a lullaby?”

“A… lullaby?” He repeated, tasting the sounds in his mouth. “I’d… love to hear one, actually, if it wouldn’t trouble you.”

You hummed a few bars, lightly, probably too light for him to hear, and then you casually tugged off your gloves with your teeth. You wanted to feel the strings beneath the pads of your fingers, feel their weight, and you started with a few trailing plucks that wove up and down the glimmering nylon streaks stretched over the neck. Your fingers weaved in-between the frets, changing chords with fluid practiced grace, and for a while, you just… played, the sound surprisingly delicate for a person like you. It was a fluttery sound that sped up and slowed according to your whims – like the flap of a hummingbird diving into the slow bumbling of a bee. It made you think of roses, and after about a minute, you started to sing – probably because you were drunk, probably because you were emotional, and probably because half of you forgot that V was even listening.

“Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high… and the dreams that you dreamed of, once in a lullaby. Somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly…”

_And the, dreams that you dreamed of,_

_Dreams really do come true._

Hah.

Haha.

What… a joke.

In the end, what you played for V sounded more like a lament than a lullaby. As the last note trailed off into silence, the air was so quiet you almost thought that the call had lost connection.

It didn’t.

Slowly, through the speaker, you heard a sound that you belatedly realized was a clap.

“That was beautiful, and your English is incredible. Are you a native speaker?”

“No. Swahili was my first language,” you replied automatically, and then realized _shit, shit, you’d just given them a clue as to where you were from._ You clammed up then, falling silent, and there was a pause from V before he spoke in an almost… reverent voice.

“I see… Well, it was beautiful. I’d love to hear you sing in other languages, too. There’s something about listening to foreign music… focusing on how it sounds, rather than the meaning of the words. I like it.”

“Do you not know English?” You asked, and V laughed softly on the other side of the line.

“No, I do. I travel so much for work that I sort of have to… though mine isn’t as good as Jumin’s, I’m afraid. I meant in general. Er – well, more specifically… I’d love to hear what your language sounds like. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Swahili before. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“…Call me again sometime,” you said, heart filled with something thick and odd. “And maybe I will.”

“Thank you, Vega. For playing for me. It was… I think I feel comforted enough to sleep, now. You’re very kind.”

“Hah! That’s kind of a stretch. Maybe I’m just narcissistic, huh? Forcing everyone to listen to my music, like Zen with his selfies.”

“No, no. I could tell. You were playing… straight from the heart. That was something personal, wasn’t it? I feel like I know you a little better, now.”

Your mouth went dry, and your shoulders stiffened. Damn, damn. What was this? Was this a _moment?_

Fuck! This was a _moment!_ You hated shit like this! _It was too dangerous to care!_

“Yeah, well. Show me some more of your photos, huh? Make the exchange mutual.”

“You sound a little like Jumin right now,” V replied, light and amused. You liked the sound, damn you. You wanted to hear it more.

It was the booze. It had to be the booze. You faked a yawn, loud enough so V could hear it.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I keeping you up? I suppose it is late…”

You were glad he took the bait. “A bit. Do you feel better, now?  Think you can sleep?”

“I can. Thank you. Goodnight, Vega. I’m sure I’ll speak to you again.”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to convince yourself that this queasy feeling in your gut was a combination of alcohol and dread. It worked, mostly. Maybe it was better to pretend these people were fictional; nothing more than programmed robots that you were testing out for a strange, dubious man.

If you convinced yourself of that, then this all wouldn’t have meaning. You’d be able to move on. Get on with yourself. This was only for a few days. Just a little bit of your time, and that woman would make all of your problems go away.

…Shaky breath in. Shaky breath out.

“Goodnight, V,” you said, and hung up the line.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this chatroom SO MUCH, and since I was plagued with insomnia when I read it, I sat down and wrote this one-shot. I hope you enjoyed it! For any curious, this is the cover of Somewhere Over the Rainbow I was listening to when I wrote it.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cHeNscKZN0


End file.
